The Pluralities of Time
by Nixas
Summary: Reid has a gift, one that has been growing since the advent of his headaches. As it develops, he wonders if it will help or hinder his performance with the BAU. Meanwhile his attempts to hide it from the team become increasingly difficult as he struggles to maintain everyday relations, let alone make it through a case.
1. Prologue

"The Pluralities of Time" - Prologue: The Foreseeable Future

Spencer sits at his desk, staring blindly at the papers scattered before him. A faint, throbbing headache pulses somewhere near the core of his brain, but even that can't fairly be blamed for his wandering thoughts. Once again he's the last remaining team member to haunt the bull-pen, though the gentle glow of Hotch's office lamp shines in his periphery. The insistent, painful clamor inside his skull alerts him to some impending disaster, or so he feels. All his life Spencer has known what the headaches mean, though in the past they had only visited him on rare occasions, and now...now it was everyday he felt the looming pressure, pressure to let go, to _see_. Closing his eyes, Spencer takes a trembling, steadying breath and lets go of the tension in his head.

 _Spencer shakes his head, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. Time to leave before Hotch forces him out of the office. He slings his messenger bag over a shoulder and takes the elevator down, down. He waves a tired hand at the security guard, walks through the entrance of the BAU headquarters. He stops, stares at the sky, imagining the pollution obscured stars, faintly seeing their beauty in another time, another age, another land..._

 _He takes the bus..._

 _ **He chooses to walk…**_

 _watching the only other passenger jerk awake every few minutes with a startled snort._

 _ **wary of the dark alleys he passes, but enjoying the ambient sounds of the city, the murmur of thousands of lives moving forward all around him.**_

 _He signals for the bus to stop and descends the crusty treads of the stairs. He fingers the switchblade he had palmed, little bursts of anxiety tingling throughout his body…_

 _ **A small, peaceful smile tugs at his lips. It is well past eleven before he trudges onto his block. Letting himself into his apartment building he can't help but feel the allure of the drifting consciousnesses tucked snugly into bed, a web of futures branching out from each sleeping person.**_

 _He quickens his pace as he walks the two blocks from the bus stop, glancing at his phone, 22:07. The clatter of something metallic crashing in an alley makes him jump. He moves faster, darting anxious glances over his shoulders, to his left, to his right; all the while he slides his fingers up along the ridged catch of the knife._

 _ **The steps creak softly beneath his feet. He fumbles with his keys, then turns the lock with a faint click and enters his apartment into the kitchen. He shrugs off his bag; eyes sweeping across the empty space, where he has (of course) left a few lamps on to cast welcome pools of light upon his return.**_

 _He sees the welcome light of the apartment building, quickens his pace to a half run. A small relieved smile tugs at his lips. He gasps._

 _ **A yawn stretches his mouth wide. He runs a hand through unruly curls and discards the idea of watching a movie before bed. Slowly, tiredly he strips on his way to the bedroom, flinging clothes haphazardly along the hallway. He sighs contentedly as he snuggles into the down of his mattress. Making sure his alarm is set, he falls into untroubled sleep.**_

 _He's afraid to look down, to see the knife, the blood. He can feel the warm trickle, but the pain hasn't hit him yet. The knife pulls out and he hears the soft gurgle-squish of torn flesh. Spencer looks to his attacker, doe eyes comprehending the imminent hand of death. He feels the sharp spiderweb of pain racing up his side as the knife slashes mercilessly into his side again, again, again. His knees buckle and already he can feel his senses waver, sound becoming sight, smells becoming noise. Cold sluices over him, through him, icing his veins. His head strikes the concrete and then nothing._

Spencer gasps, sucking in air as if it was his last breath. He realizes he's shaking and quickly balls his hands into fists. Warm skin and deep breaths reassures the agent that he's alive, and that for at least one foreseeable future he will remain that way.

Spencer shakes his head, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. Time to leave before Hotch forces him out of the office. He slings his messenger bag over a shoulder and takes the elevator down, down. He waves a tired hand at the security guard, walks through the entrance of the BAU headquarters. He stops, stares at the sky, imagining the pollution obscured stars, faintly seeing their beauty in another time, another age, another land...

He chooses to walk...

* * *

Thanks for reading! As this is the prologue it is shorter than the chapter updates which should come fairly regularly for now.


	2. The Common Denominator

**Thanks to all the lovely people who followed, reviewed, and favorited! It is greatly appreciated.**

Chapter One: The Common Denominator

Reid walked into the bullpen, halting Morgan's greeting with a firm, stop gesture. He dumped his belongings at the desk and all but ran to the kitchenette to pour a piping hot cup of holy of holies, coffee. Morgan, who had at first looked slightly offended, now smirked, trailing behind Reid. He raised his eyebrows as the genius, eyes closed in bliss, took his first sip. Reid nodded in acquiescence, waving his hand exaggeratedly,

"You may now speak".

"I thought you'd want to know that Garcia's famous cookies will be making an appearance today."

Reid raised a brow, "Hmmm I better go wait in her office before the rest of you lot steal them all."

"Us? Steal all the cookies? I highly doubt that; I don't know where you put all that food, but you can easily out-eat all of us at once," Morgan joked.

Reid opened his mouth for a riposte but was interrupted by the lady in question.

"Gooood Morning my lovelies! The cookies have arrived!" Garcia's voice drifted over the typical morning white-noise of the office.

Both men left the kitchenette and were bountifully greeted with homemade cookies and exuberant hugs. Reid tried not to cringe away as a sudden sharp stab of pain shot through his skull.

 _Lynch enters the bullpen. She steps forward to kiss him…_

 _ **She pulls away from his presumptuously puckered lips…**_

He pulled away quickly, not wanting to involve himself in the futures of his friends. Still, he smiled and thanked her, his voice cracking only the slightest bit. He had just begun to settle at his desk when JJ appeared, Lynch awkwardly hanging back behind her.

"Hey, Hotch wants you in the conference room in five. There's a case," JJ announced, sidestepping as Lynch made his way toward Garcia.

Returning JJ's brief smile, Reid immediately turned to gathering the required things for the meeting, never once glancing behind to see what Garcia would choose.

Garcia joined them in the conference room, face flushed, though whether in indignation or pleasure was still unknown. Hotch greeted her with a composed nod of the head, giving her silent permission to begin.

"Well my lovelies, we have a less than lovely start to the day. Columbus Met. Police in Ohio have asked our help with a series of bizarre murders," here the first victim was projected, "Four victims have been discovered, each with a typed note left behind."

Rossi flipped through the pictures in his file, "From the looks of it, that's about the only thing they have in common."

Garcia nodded.

"Yes, the first victim, twenty year old Amelia Withers, was found with the note 'Sin is Sincere' taped to her forehead. Her eyes were gouged out, and there were several pre-mortem slashes to her face. The cause of death was a laceration to the jugular."

 _Spencer was singing, tapping his fingers to the beat filtering through his headphones. He stubbornly wore them despite the faint throb building in his head. It had been a long day and the music kept him awake on the ride home. The bus belched to a stop, the gasp of the opening doors loud even with the blaring music. Spencer stepped down, nearly buckling as his foot hit the concrete, a bolt of pain lancing deep behind his eyes._

 _Shrill screaming rang in his ears and Spencer whipped his head wildly around, searching for the woman who seemed in desperate pain. His eyes searched the few scattered strangers waiting at the bus-stop, but there was no alarm in their eyes._

" _Please! No! Why are you doing this?" The screaming morphed into words and still Spencer seemed to be the only one aware of them. The lyrics to the song wove through the litany of pleas. His vision began to waver, and he looked down, trying to focus on a crack in the sidewalk, trying to anchor himself against the onslaught. Yet even that began to undulate, to melt into something else until he was no longer staring at the stained and pitted concrete surface but into a room, a room where a screaming woman gazed blindly up at him. Blood and gore oozed from her eye sockets._

Spencer blinked and tried to focus on what Emily was saying.

"-she was a very beautiful young woman".

Morgan and Rossi murmured in agreement.

"Where was the body found?" Hotch asked.

"The dumpsite was in the dumpster behind a Sally's Beauty Supply in a rich suburban area."

The image on the projector changed to a harangued looking middle-aged man.

"This is David Boone, a thirty-seven year old contractor. Cause of death was a bullet to the head, point blank."

"Execution style," noted Reid.

Garcia continued, "The typed note was found in his wallet, it reads 'Guilty for Paying Paul'. Aside from that, there does not appear to be any signs of a struggle-"

" _Better to be blamed for robbin' Peter than guilty for payin' Paul," Spencer sang beneath his breath as he readied himself for work. He winced, frowning as he recognized the start of a headache, and therefore the possible implications. Absently he rubbed his forehead, fingers unconsciously combing through errant strands of hair. He continued to sing as he searched for his other shoe, hopping gracelessly about. A cry of triumph resounded in the apartment and he straightened, catching his reflection in the hall mirror. Except it wasn't._

 _Playful smile falling from his lips, Spencer watched the man in the mirror fall to his knees, tears trickling down his cheeks, tired eyes pleading. Ice splashed his skin, flesh prickling with fear as the mirror seemed to splinter, a ripple spiderwebbing out from the bullet hole._

 _He blinked and his reflection stood staring back at him, pale and trembling in the hallway._

"-which suggest that the victim knew the attacker," finished Morgan.

"Exactly. His body was found by his ex-wife in his apartment. They were divorced three months ago in April, apparently due to his heavy addiction to alcohol."

JJ cocked her head, "That he was found in the apartment also suggests that he knew the unsub."

A beautiful blond woman, dressed in a tight fitting black dress took David's place.

"Cynthia Trent was a 32 year old business woman, single, though she had her fair share of paramours. Her cause of death was also a gunshot from point blank, however that was only after she was in a car crash. After analysis, it was shown that her brake line was cut beforehand-"

 _Laughing at Morgan's joke, Spencer followed the rest of his teammates into the club for a drink. Emily wrinkled her nose as the music swept over them, making her opinion clear. However, the brief glint of excited recognition lit Spencer's eyes. Within seconds it was eclipsed with horror as he felt a horrid, wrenching pain in his head and his chest. The world lurched and his vision was obscured by something warm and viscous. Blood._

 _Fear blossomed in his chest, a thready pulse that screamed for escape! But he was trapped...something constricting his chest. Looking up he saw his reflection in the rear view mirror - a wreck of a woman gazed back._

"So the unsub cut the brake line, followed her, then shot her in the head?"

"Correct, and then they pinned this note to her clothes," the screen changed to a close up of a blood spattered paper on which the words 'You Wear Your Ruins Well' were typed in non-descript font. At this, Reid gave a visible start.

Hotch narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, "Does that mean something to you Reid?"

Spencer licked his lips. "I'm not sure yet, who's the last victim?"

Garcia clicked to the next screen which showed a young black man staring garrulously at the camera.

"Freddie Weslo is a 17 year old, black male. He was found in an alley just last week, shot twelve times. The message 'You Better Run' was laid next to him, under his arm. He has an extensive record and is purported to be the leader of a local gang."

 _Popping his friend's present into the CD player, Spencer pulled out, for once having driven to work. It was still fairly early, six in the evening, and so he was planning a Doctor Who marathon for one when he got home. He was patient in the rush hour traffic, drumming the steering wheel in time to the beat as he sat waiting, waiting. Heading directly into the glare of the setting sun made his brows scrunch together, and, consequently, breathed life into a steady throbbing headache._

 _A sudden flare causing him to wince, he almost missed how the traffic vanished to his left, replaced by a shadowed alley. Twelve sharp cracks resounded and Spencer watched the teen stumble, watched him fall. Immediately Spencer reacted, twisting out of his seatbelt and throwing his door open. He ran to the bleeding teen, kneeling at his side, only to find an empty patch of asphalt and car horns blaring in his ears. Looking around in bewilderment, Spencer saw that he was in the middle of a traffic jam, his car softly dinging in the distance._

"So we have two white women, one twenty, the other thirty-two, a seventeen year old black male, and a middle aged white male...that's quite a difference in victimology," Rossi said what everyone was thinking.

But Spencer felt that his suspicions had been confirmed.


	3. No Reflection

Chapter Two: No Reflection

Heading toward Ohio, the team collaborated on the jet, discussing what intricacies were already apparent in the case. Among them, Reid sat and pondered, worrying at the cuff of his sweater. In his bones, he was sure of at least one other connection the rest of the team had yet to make. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he gathered courage to share this information.

"Hey, Hotch?"

Agent Hotchner's dark gaze met Spencer's own nervous eyes. A certain gravity in the older man's eyes told Spencer that he had been waiting for Reid to speak.

"Yes Reid, what is it?"

Eyes shifting to evade several gazes fixed on him, the words finally began to filter through his mouth, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"The letters - I mean, the messages left with the victims, that's the key to finding the link. They're all lyrics to Marilyn Manson's songs."

Morgan's eyes narrowed quizzically.

"He's a singer," Reid added, rather redundantly.

"Yeah, I think we all know who Marilyn Manson is, kid. You're suggesting that the unsub, for some reason, is obsessed with Marilyn Manson and murdering otherwise unconnected people?" Rossi looked and sounded rather dubious.

"Maybe the unsub's inspired by him," Prentiss chimed in, taking the attention away from Reid, "Marilyn Manson is quite the icon for satanic worship and other occult theories."

"Actually, Satanism has nothing to do with murder. In fact, one of the Satanic tenets is to respect other people, and only sanctions violence in self-defense. Marilyn Manson is pretty well aware of this and he writes extensively about the many misperceptions of his band in his memoir."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Reid, you've read Marilyn Manson's memoir?"

Spencer met the other agent's gaze evenly, answering his question with a slight affirmative shrug.

"And if the unsub is leaving Marilyn Manson quotes with the bodies, it is likely that they've also read Marilyn's memoir," Hotch added, following Spencer's line of reasoning.

"If that's true, then it is likely to be the words themselves, if not the writer, that connects the murders," JJ's blue eyes briefly met each of her co-workers'.

"Reid, will you look for comparisons from the songs the lyrics were taken from?" Hotch ordered nicely. Spencer nodded, though he had already started on the task long before boarding the jet. He was vaguely aware of the incredulous look Morgan directed his way. He struggled to ignore the slight pull he felt, the urge to peek behind the curtain of reality, to perhaps glimpse what would have happened if he had not confessed as much in front of the team. But really, he didn't need special abilities to know that more people would die, needless deaths that could have otherwise been prevented.

Mostly, Reid was worried that another blackout would happen, if you could really call it that. Typically he had a choice to ignore or embrace his visions, even if he suffered a headache for the latter decision. But recently...he recalled the overwhelming sense of drowning in terror Cynthia felt as she watched her murderer approach in the rearview mirror...lately he felt that it was he who was drowning, scrabbling at handholds of control he couldn't find. If the team realized what was going on...but how could _anyone_ figure out what was amiss? The BAU was built upon rationality and this...this was something else that even he, the Garcia dubbed 'boy-wonder', could barely grasp.

Feeling Hotch's loaded gaze resting upon him, Reid lifted his eyes from his fidgeting hands, making the slightest eye-contact needed to acknowledge Hotch's concern with a weak reassuring smile. The rest of the team had already begun to delve into their respective tasks and so he flipped open his copy of the case-files, scanning the victims' profiles with glazed eyes.

As has already been established, Reid wasn't stupid and he recognized that these particular visions, the ones starring what he could only assume were the victims' last moments, only occurred when he listened to Manson's music. Some irrational part of him felt that if he just stopped listening to the music, so too would the murders cease. Another, darker part of himself wanted to listen to the music just to see what would happen. Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he mulled over the lyrics of 'Killing Strangers', 'Putting Holes in Happiness', 'Deep Six' , and 'Devil Beneath My Feet', which were the songs the phrases had come from. He wondered at his reluctance to share this information with the team, though he found that he had already begun to write down the songs in their entirety on the backs of the profiles.

He stared dispassionately at the boxed phrases, running through potential connections to the victims' lives. Why these phrases? It was as if the unsub had chosen portions of the lyrics that were purposefully divorced from the chorus and titles, but why? If he was trying to make a statement with Manson's words, wouldn't he have picked the more easily identifiable refrains?

"Reid, what is it?" Hotch's voice cut through his ponderings.

Reid's head snapped up, startled brown doe eyes meeting Hotch's. He offered his scribbled notes to the BAU chief.

"These are the rest of the lyrics to the songs that accompanied the victims. I was just thinking that the unsub seemed to have chosen parts of the lyrics that didn't directly reflect the song's title or meaning."

Hotch passed on the notes to Rossi, whose brow rose.

"That's some speedy work, even for you, Reid," Rossi's implied 'how' hung in the air, adding a pressure greater the cabin's. Spencer licked his lips, knowing that the forthcoming confession was inevitable.

"I like Marilyn Manson's music," which was probably the shortest sentence that Reid had never expounded upon.

Rossi's lips pulled down into a thoughtful moue.

"Good to know that you expand your horizons beyond the classical realm," Morgan's tone was joking, but a hint of surprise still colored his words. Petty resentment bubbled up in Reid's chest. He disliked the nerdy box that his co-workers constantly constructed around him. Though to be fair, he _was_ a nerd, but that still didn't mean they knew everything about him. He frowned at Morgan, though he was partly frowning at himself, for he had known that sharing his musical interests with the team would elicit some amount of surprise and perhaps even judgment.

"Well that should make this easy, if you're our resident Marilyn Manson expert," Prentiss' tone was jocular, but simultaneously chastising, sensitive as she was to Reid's moods. She offered him a reassuring smile, which only embarrassed Reid more. He shouldn't need other people to create his boundaries for him. He broke eye contact with her, frustrated with his awkwardness. It was only then, when he confronted his annoyance and self-deprecation, that he recognized the pulsating whisper of a headache beginning to form.

Alarmed, he attempted to clear his mind, forcibly trying to relax in hopes that this would appease the rising ache. This was what he had feared, and the more he focused on the wave of agony that rolled through his head from pre-frontal cortex to cerebellum, the more the fear snaked its way up and around his spine. Mutely, Reid watched his colleagues discuss the lyrics as if a sheet of soundproof glass isolated him. He wanted to rush to the bathroom and splash some water on his face, do something to bring himself back to reality, but he couldn't move, and he couldn't shake the horribly undeniable feeling that this _was_ reality. His vision blurred.

 _Blood spilling along neat grouted bathroom tiles. A razor resting in limp fingers, his fingers._

Hotch was saying something to him, his expression serious.

 _A pained groan echoed with the faint gurgle of water running down a sink drain._

Reid clenched his fists, digging his nails deep, deep into his flesh, trying to remain conscious enough to answer Hotch.

 _Whimpering cries. "Reid?"_

"Reid? Reid, are you ok?"

 _He opens his eyes. The dark silhouette of someone in the doorframe._

A hand on his forehead silences the clamor of concern. He leans into the cool touch, eyes unable to stay open.

" _Oh my god, Reid! Reid, can you hear me?!"_

"Morgan, it's fine. Go away," his tongue feels thick and fuzzy as he answers the other Morgan, the one in the doorway.

" _911, what's your emergency?"_

" _I need to report an um...an attempted s-suicide."_


End file.
